Ha! (25 page)

Which is why I find it so impressive that Cann was able to convince his university review board to allow him to show subjects a twenty-minute excerpt of the movie, just to see what would happen. Some subjects started with sixteen minutes of stand-up comedy and then viewed scenes of death afterward. For them the humor was intended to provide protection, a sort of inoculation for the gruesome scenes to follow. Others viewed the comedy last. For them it was a form of a recovery, a chance to allow their minds to return to normalcy. A third group of subjects simply watched a travel documentary. Sometimes the documentary came before the scenes of death, sometimes after.

Cann's results showed that the stand-up helped subjects deal with the stressful movie, specifically by lowering the perceived tension. However, those benefits were limited to one group in particular—namely, the subjects who saw the comedy first. In fact, the study showed almost no benefit from
ending
with a comedy because by then it was too late. The only benefits were seen when the subjects were put in a good mood as soon as the experiment started.

This last finding is important because it shows that humor isn't so much a magic cure as a form of prevention. Like exercise before a race, it prepares our bodies for the stress yet to come. This may seem counter to Cousins's experience, since he didn't start laughing until after he was diagnosed. But bear in mind that except for providing some mild exercise, laughter doesn't change the body directly. It works through the mind. It creates a protective outlook, and this is what bolsters our
immune system and helps us move past gruesome death scenes. This outlook is key, helping to put Cann's subjects in a good mood to prepare them for the gore that followed. It's also what Cousins cultivated by secluding himself in his hotel room, refusing to accept the odds his doctors gave him.

A neuroscientist friend of mine once shared with me what he called evolution's greatest gift to living creatures: the ability of the brain, at times of extreme damage to our bodies, to stop releasing chemicals associated with pain and alarm. Instead, it releases endorphins, nature's equivalent of morphine. From an evolutionary standpoint it's hard to see the benefits of such a release. It doesn't increase energy, and it doesn't promote recovery either. It simply provides psychological comfort, making our most trying moments peaceful instead of terrifying. Apparently nature thought that was important enough.

I share this story to introduce the concept of positive outlook, which is also related to humor. I'm not talking about enduring pain associated with bear or tiger attacks; rather, my point is that humor helps us overcome psychological injuries. Humorous people experience the same number of stressful events as everybody else, and we know this because scientists have actually counted. However, as researchers have shown, people who are quick to laugh tend to forget those stressful experiences more quickly than those around them. Humor also helps us ignore the events in our lives that might otherwise cause us pain or harm. Humorous people may not experience easier lives than those around them, but they often feel as though they do. They're able to block out negative experiences when they're over and to move on.

Perhaps this is why doctors are finally taking Cousins's advice and incorporating humor as part of their medical treatments. Comedy Carts are springing up in hospitals across the country. For example, the one at the St. Jude Children's Research Hospital in Memphis, Tennessee, which distributes whoopee cushions and funny movies to keep patients laughing. Or the Therapeutic Humor Program at Rochester General Hospital in New York. It distributes comic books and videos to its patients, who report a 50 percent decrease in stress as a result of the program. And
then there's the Big Apple Circus, which sends “Clown Care Units” to New York City hospitals to visit sick children and their families.

When the movie
Patch Adams
was released in 1998, several reviewers complained that it downplayed the importance of medicine in recovery. Laughter and positive attitude are certainly beneficial, they said, but they're of little help if the patient dies in the end. That's true, but it's also true that patients receiving the best drugs and medical treatments sometimes die despite the best efforts of doctors and hospitals. Humor alone may not keep us healthy, but it can reduce the amount of pain in our lives—whether real or perceived. It can also strengthen our heart and immune system and, assuming that we use it positively, improve our psychological well-being too. So laughter really
is
the best medicine, so long as it's mixed with exercise, a healthy diet, and an occasional dose of penicillin.

Humor is a lot like changing a baby's diaper—it doesn't necessarily solve all our problems, but it sure does make things more pleasant for a while.

7

   
H
UMOR
D
ANCES

              
I've discovered that getting a laugh is more a trick of timing than of true wit.

—G
ORE
V
IDAL

N
OW THAT WE
'
RE OVER FORTY, MY WIFE
L
AURA AND
I
DON
'
T
spend many late evenings out anymore. The transition was slow but unmistakable; when we were young we frequently went out to dinners, movies, and comedy shows. Then, as jobs and other responsibilities started competing for time, these activities began to change. We became more inclined to get up early for hikes or bicycle rides. Late-night trips to bars turned into quiet evenings with close friends. We still went out to dinners and clubs, but they were no longer the kind with live bands. They were ones we'd been to before, where we already knew the menu.

So, when I asked Laura if she'd like to go with me to a comedy club as research for this book, I expected her to balk. Boy, was I wrong.

“Let's go tonight,” she recommended. She didn't ask who the head-liner was or how late the show would be starting. “What should I wear?
Should we get dinner beforehand? Do you think any of our friends would like to join us?” I answered each question as best I could, trying not to overthink whether our transition to adulthood had been a mutual decision. She was in as soon as the offer left my mouth.

We ended up going to Magooby's Joke House, which is one of the most popular comedy clubs in Baltimore and only a short distance from our home in eastern Maryland. Located in a four-hundred-seat theater with tall ceilings and stadium seating, it was the kind of place where everybody has a great view. Like most clubs, it offered a variety of cheese- and potato-related appetizers as well as an elaborate menu of drinks with names like “The Blind Pirate” and “Screwy Light Bulb.” So the night was off to a good start.

The first performer was the club's emcee, Mike, and though he wasn't bad he didn't make me laugh much. His comedy was different from the kind I usually enjoy watching, with jokes that were safe crowd-pleasers and a style of delivery using exaggerated movements and facial expressions. At one point, Mike quipped about Facebook and how stupid he thought it is. Then, close to the end of his act, he got several cheers by asking whether anybody in the audience hated the Pittsburgh Steelers. In Baltimore, that's like asking a crowd of Ohio State undergrads if anybody hates the University of Michigan.

The next act was a little better, but already I was looking forward to the headliner, Rich Voss. I knew of Voss because I had watched
Last Comic Standing,
an NBC show where professional comics performed each week and got voted out one by one,
Survivor
style. Ratings were bad and the show was eventually canceled, though I remember Voss because he was one of the funniest and most likable contestants from the opening season. A regular bit involved the comedians giving recorded interviews, and Voss always gave his in a bathtub, usually accompanied by one of the other comics, David Mordal. It was absurd and awkward and, to me, utterly hilarious. So I was excited to be at Magooby's that night.

But as soon as Voss began his act, I could tell Laura was not impressed. He began with a few racial jokes and insults thrown out to the audience,
a confrontational style that I suspect was intended to get people worked up early. Then he moved to safer topics like teenage daughters and spousal flatulence, and although I laughed frequently, Laura barely snickered. She was still having a good time, but clearly she wasn't connecting with Voss's dark comedic style. At one point he made a comment about dating, and how men don't just date a woman but all of her friends, relatives, previous boyfriends, and every expectation she has had since childhood. I knew Laura must have found this joke funny because it was exactly her type of humor, yet it got only a chuckle, nothing more. Now it had become personal. She clearly just didn't like Voss.

After the performance, we agreed it had been a great evening and that we should do it again soon. Then Laura remarked that she would return simply to see the emcee, the performer I had disliked. He was hilarious, she said. When I remarked that I didn't think his jokes were original, she said she didn't either, but that she loved the way he delivered them. It was as if we had experienced completely different acts.

It's not that Laura was offended by Voss's humor. Though his jokes were frequently off-color, my wife—a retired military officer who has spent significant time at sea in the North Pacific—isn't easily offended. In short, there isn't much she hasn't seen or heard. And though I have explicit instructions not to make her sound like a longshoreman, let's just say that when Laura is prodded, her profanity could make Mark Twain blush. So what gives?

Clearly, each of the performers deserved to be onstage and each got plenty of laughs. The difference was really one of connectedness. I never connected with Mike the emcee and didn't like how he manipulated his audience. Laura never connected with Voss and didn't enjoy his stern, New Jersey style. These differences highlight the social nature of humor and how much it involves relationships between people.

This chapter explores those relationships. Earlier in the book we looked at how humor violates expectations at a psychological level, leading to revised scripts. Now we'll see how expectations exist on a social level, too. Successful comics manipulate their audiences by controlling
their expectations, which for Mike the emcee meant starting with a few simple crowd-pleasers, and for Voss meant insulting various members of the audience. Each approach shaped how the crowd would react to the performers' quips and punch lines. These styles allowed relationships to form—but in each case, damaged connections meant failed humor. Over the next several pages we'll explore why, showing how humor takes advantage of the most challenging aspects of our social relationships, such as subtlety, ambiguity, and conflict. We'll also see how humor brings us together by cultivating shared expectations—and then destroying them.

H
UMOR AND
D
ANCING

The psychologist and philosopher William James once said that common sense and humor are the same thing moving at different speeds. Common sense walks, but humor dances.

Dancing is indeed the perfect analogy for how humor works. Humor, like dancing, is by nature a social phenomenon. Try telling a funny story in an empty room and you'll see what I mean. Without having other faces to look at for a reaction, you'll find that the joke isn't a joke at all. Humor requires both a teller and a receiver, and its success depends on how well one influences the thoughts and expectations of the other.